


After the Incident at Dead Man's Corner

by Pepper Espinoza (pepperlandgirl4)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Complete, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Romance, Sequel, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8337133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperlandgirl4/pseuds/Pepper%20Espinoza
Summary: “I like you, Paul. I always have. You like me, don’t you?”“’Course I do.”“Then marry me.”“It’s not that simple,” Paul protested, gauging the depth of the first grave. Only three feet. It would work if he had a mountain of stones on hand, but he didn’t.“Why on Earth not?”“Because I…” Paul had the sense that marriage should be a grand affair. Romantic, passionate, but never spontaneous. He didn’t know where he picked up this idea, but he couldn’t seem to shake it. He would have married Eliza if she had stayed, if she had loved him.





	

 

**Chapter One**

Martha met him in the cemetery early in the morning, armed with a bouquet of drying flowers and weeds she had gathered from the nearby hills, and a bucket of food. Paul wasn’t surprised to see her. He also wasn’t surprised that she was the only one who arrived for the funeral.

“I can help you dig the graves,” she offered. 

Paul looked at the two covered corpses near the shallow graves and back at Martha’s pretty face. There was already a single bead of sweat in the hollow of her throat, her skin glistening in the morning heat. “No.” 

Martha perched on a boulder, setting the pail of food at her feet. She looked almost child-like in the gray light of pre-dawn. Paul shook his head, focusing on the narrow hole before him. 

“Why don’t you have the deputies help?” Martha asked. “You’ll want to get these graves dug before the sun gets too high.” 

After the final showdown between Mayor Reid, his wife, and the town, everybody had vanished, leaving Paul to put Dead Man’s Corner back together from the bottom up. He earned the responsibility by virtue of surviving the battle, not by virtue of ability. He didn’t mind…much. “Nobody offered.” 

Martha shook her head. “Paul, you’re the boss now. You don’t wait for people to  _ offer _ to help; you tell them that they’re digging graves before breakfast.” 

Paul shrugged, “It’s not a big deal. What’s with the pail?” 

“I thought I’d bring you some breakfast. So you wouldn’t have to eat at the hotel,” Martha said, smiling. Her crooked front teeth always distracted him. It was her only imperfection, but it didn’t mar her beauty. 

“What’s wrong with eating at the hotel?” He pushed the nose of the shovel into the shifting sand. It would be easier to burn the bodies. It would be easier to burn the town. 

“Because the  _ mayor _ shouldn’t be eating at the hotel with everybody else. It’s unseemly,” Martha said primly.

Paul laughed, though it felt more forced than genuine. “Unseemly? Honey, those guys don’t care where I eat. They probably don’t even realize I’ve taken over the job.” He had officially been mayor for nearly a week now, and nobody had even commented on his new role.

“It’s just not right,” she huffed. “You should be better than that.” 

“This isn’t San Francisco or New York,” Paul said, pausing to survey the single dusty road that ran through town. He could already hear dynamite in the hills. The miners always got to work early. And now they could work in peace, without the fear of Bernard Reid sneaking up behind them, taking them prisoner, murdering them, and stealing their claims.  

“If you’re going to do right by this place, you need a wife,” Martha announced. She brushed the hair out of her face, a simple gesture that drew Paul’s eyes away from his task.  

“Now, Martha, where am I going to find a wife here? No women in Dead Man’s Corner but whores, and I don’t have the inclination to travel on to Santa Fe,” Paul said, his shovel slicing through the dirt.  The only woman he wanted to marry was out of his life anyway. 

“I can be your wife.” 

Paul stopped short, but he didn’t look at her. Did she just propose marriage? To  _ him _ ? Despite his lofty new title, he was nothing more than a boy. What’s more, a boy that was in love with a woman who had rolled out of town the morning before on the arm of another man. What would  _ any _ woman, especially a beautiful woman like Martha, want with marrying him? 

“I’ll treat you real good,” she added. “I’ll cook your food and do your laundry and clean up the house, and well…o’ course I’ll stop working at the hotel.” 

He answered without thinking, fear pushing the word past his lips. “No.” 

She reared back. “No?” 

Paul shook his head. “No.” How could he deal with being Martha’s husband and Dead Man’s Corner’s new mayor? One week ago, he hadn’t even been trusted with a real job.  

“Is it because of Eliza?” Martha asked, tilting her head and pursing her fine lips. “She isn’t coming back.” 

Paul knew that. Still, he didn’t know what to do with a wife. He decided to change the subject, trying to ignore the sudden pain in his heart. “What are you doing here anyway? I’m sure you didn’t have any tender feelings towards the mayor.” 

“No, I didn’t, but Elsie was always kind to me. Besides, you pay your respect to the dead.” 

“I’m sorry I shot her,” Paul muttered. He could still see her, standing over Eliza’s body, a mean smile on her face, a gun in her hand. Eliza had been defenseless, trapped. That second in time had been frozen, endless, as he raised his gun, and stared at Elsie’s eyes over the long barrel.  

“You didn’t have a choice.” 

“Still sorry I had to do it.” He looked at the two corpses, wrapped in white sheets. They didn’t have enough wood on hand to make proper coffins. “I couldn’t sleep last night.” 

“Why not? Paul, if you feel guilty, don’t. She was going to kill Eliza, you knew it…” 

Paul shook his head. “No, it’s not the guilt. I couldn’t sleep because the house was too quiet…the bed was too soft. Just not use to fine living, I guess.” 

“I guess not.” 

“Where you from, Martha?” Paul knew she wasn’t going to leave until both the bodies were interred. You do have to pay your respects to the dead. Paul believed it too. Otherwise, he would have tossed the bodies to the desert, allowed the coyotes to make short work of Dead Man’s Corner’s former murderous mayor and former crazy first lady. 

“New York City.” 

“Now, what would a fine lady from New York City want with someone like me?” Paul joked. 

“Nothing. A fine lady from New York City wouldn’t even notice somebody like you, mayor or not. You wouldn’t even be good enough to tend to the horses. But I’m not a fine lady from New York City. I’m a whore from Dead Man’s Corner, and you’re the finest man in town.” 

“There are richer men…” 

“I said fine, not rich. Besides, I’ve already taken their money. They’re fools with nothing better to do at night than leave their gold on my bed. What do I need a man with money for?” 

“What do you need me for?” 

“I  _ like _ you, Paul. I always have. You like me, don’t you?” 

Paul paused, resting his arm on the top of his shovel. The question struck him as absurd. Who in town didn’t like Martha? Shining, golden hair, sweet body, beautiful smile—a rarity in Dead Man’s Corner, she was the only whore with all her teeth. Crooked as they were. How many nights had he considered knocking on her door, taking his turn in her bed? But he never could walk up those stairs. “’Course I do.” 

“Then marry me.” 

“It’s not that simple,” Paul protested, gauging the depth of the first grave. Only three feet. It would work if he had a mountain of stones on hand, but he didn’t. 

“Why on Earth not?” 

“Because I…” Paul had the sense that marriage should be a grand affair. Romantic, passionate, but never spontaneous. He didn’t know where he picked up this idea, but he couldn’t seem to shake it. He would have married Eliza if she had stayed, if she had loved him. 

“It’s because I’m a whore, isn’t it?” Martha asked, her voice low. 

“No…no…I mean, shoot Martha, I don’t care. None of my concern, is it?” Paul didn’t understand why she was doing this. Didn’t he have enough to worry about without her pressuring him into marriage? Just two weeks before, he had been a lowly, unpaid deputy with little money and no concerns. He had been happy enough. 

“We can do it this afternoon. Eliza took my silk dress, but I have one that’s almost as nice.” She pulled the lid off the top of the bucket, removing several biscuits wrapped in a checkered towel. Paul could smell them despite the overwhelming aroma of over-turned earth and decay. “Biscuit?” 

“I’m not hungry just now.” 

“Open your mouth. Take it. I’ll be right back,” she instructed, pushing the warm bread against his lips. 

“Where you going?” he asked, taking the food from her. 

“I’m getting you some help. You’re going to be out here all day otherwise. I want to make sure you’re rested and fresh for this afternoon.” 

“Martha, I said…” 

She waved her hand. “I know what you said, but you’re going to change your mind by this afternoon.” 

“How do you know?” Paul asked. 

“I know how men work.” Martha winked, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be back shortly.” 

The woman kept her word, returning in minutes with five men, each armed with their mining equipment. Paul watched them approach with regret. They’d take over and be done with the digging in less than an hour, then Bernard and Elsie Reid would truly be out of his life forever. He may have had a hand in killing them, but he wasn’t ready for that. In a sick way, they had been like family.

“We’ve got it now, boss.” 

“Go on inside.” 

Paul shook his head. “I appreciate the help, but I think I’ll just stay on and finish.” 

They shrugged, setting to work with the same grim determination that governed their lives. It soon became apparent to Paul that he was in the way. Stepping back, he joined Martha on the edge of the cemetery. The sun was now fully over the horizon, and Martha didn’t look like a child anymore. She looked like an astute, focused, intelligent woman. 

Paul tried to swallow his fear. Fear of being a husband as well as a mayor. Fear of what she would see in him once they were married. Fear that he couldn’t survive by himself. He wanted to touch her. “I really don’t know the first thing about being a husband.” 

“Most men don’t.” 

“I’m going to be awfully busy,” he warned. “All those bodies out there…they need to be dug up and reburied. Properly. Not to mention the rest…” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“I am in love with Eliza.” 

“I know that too. Who you love isn’t my concern.” 

“This afternoon works for me then.” 

Martha smiled, taking his hand. “What would you like for dinner tonight?” 

#

Paul hated his new house. He hated that the kitchen still smelled of Elsie’s perfume. He hated that cigar smoke still lingered in Bernard’s den. He refused to sleep in their bed, opting instead to sleep in the guest room on the ground floor. He hated the silence. He hated being alone—at least when he was forced to sleep in the stables behind the sheriff’s office, he usually shared his makeshift bed with a friend, or even an old mutt. 

Most of all, he hated the fact that Martha seemed completely out of place in the grand house. 

She moved into his bedroom without asking. She used Elsie’s pots and pans to make dinner. She laughed and hummed beneath her breath, but Paul couldn’t shake the feeling that they were interlopers, and they would be found out any second. Then what? Perhaps they would join Mayor Reid and Elsie in the afterlife. 

When the walls closed around him, and Martha’s incessant humming drove him to distraction, he grabbed his hat and hurried out the back door, Martha calling after him. Of course, it was his wedding night. Of course, he would want to spend time with his new bride. Of course, he was looking forward to a fine, home-cooked meal. Of course, the ghosts of the dead didn’t haunt him. 

He ran anyway. 

To the lot of shallow graves behind the house. 

The graves weren’t in clean rows. They were all quickly dug, wherever the body had landed. He carefully picked his way around each of the mounds, counting as he walked by.  _ One, two three, four… _ He knew which graves were fresh, but Reid had been in Dead Man’s Corner since almost day one. He had one of the first claims. He had built the first house. He had probably named the town. He could have been shooting people and burying them in narrow holes since the very day he set up camp. Paul had no way of knowing. 

Passing each grave, he wondered where his brother was buried. Which heap represented his best friend’s final resting place? Would he have the courage necessary to see to the corpses? 

It would be easiest to leave it. To ignore it. But it wouldn’t be right. 

Martha found him long after the sunset, standing over a random grave. He didn’t look up as she approached, but he wasn’t surprised when she touched his arm. 

“What are you doing out here?” she asked. 

“Trying to make sense of this,” he said, nodding at the unmarked cemetery. “Not sure how I’m going to take care of it all.” 

“Is it necessary?” 

Paul flinched. “You know it is.” 

“When are you going to start?” 

“Tomorrow. Bright and early.” 

“Not by yourself, I hope.” 

“No, I’ll have help this time.” 

They both fell silent, observing the last rays of light sinking behind the hills.  _ This is my wife _ , Paul thought, unable to quite comprehend it.  _ This is my wife. Mine _ . But Martha didn’t feel like his  _ anything _ . Nobody belonged to him. He didn’t own a thing. He was just borrowing the town until somebody with more knowledge and strength came along and took it over.  

“Your dinner is getting cold,” she said softly. 

“I’m not very hungry.” 

“Why don’t you come inside?” Her touch was too familiar, her body too close to his. He tried to imagine following her into the house, into their bedroom, into their wedding bed. He tried to imagine finally sleeping with the most popular whore in Dead Man’s Corner—and he hated himself for thinking of his own  _ wife _ as a whore. He hated that he couldn’t think of her as his wife. 

“No, I think I’m going to go over to the livery and see about getting a wagon and a mule for tomorrow.” 

Martha sighed, releasing him. “I see.” 

“What are you going to do tomorrow?” Paul asked, hoping to make light small talk. He didn’t want her to leave angry. 

“I’m gutting the house.” 

“Gutting the house?” 

“Getting rid of everything that’s not ours,” she explained. 

“But what will we do?” Paul asked, imagining a bare, empty home. No furniture, no pans, no candles, nothing. 

“I’ll order more at the store,” she said, shrugging. 

“Order more? But we can’t afford…” 

“Paul, you’re a rich man now. And well, I have my own money. You don’t need to worry about it.” 

Paul bit his lip. “Well, if it makes you happy…” 

“Does it make you happy living in that house?” Martha asked, touching him again. Why did she always need to touch him? He resisted the urge to push her away, understanding that it would hurt her if he batted her hand like a fly. 

“No. No, it doesn’t,” he admitted. “Maybe we should get our own house.” 

Martha didn’t answer. Paul knew it was a ridiculous notion. How would he build a new house? He wasn’t accustomed to having real goals, real dreams. She squeezed his hand one more time before releasing him, sauntering back to the kitchen door, her hips swinging in such an alluring way…

Paul shook his head, trudging the opposite direction. He found Red Noonan in the livery, whittling what looked to be a hollow bone—something small, maybe from a dog. 

“What can I do for you?” he growled, without glancing up. 

“I need a wagon. A few good mules too.” 

“What for?” 

“Moving bodies.” 

Red spat from the corner of his mouth. “When you want it?” 

“Tomorrow.” 

“Come by around seven. It’ll be ready.” 

Paul hadn’t expected his request to be fulfilled so easily. Red was a stubborn ol’ cuss, and he seemed to have a special fondness for mocking Paul. But then, the last time they met, Paul had been nothing but a lowly sheriff’s deputy—one that didn’t even get paid for the work he did. 

“Well, I’m much obliged.” 

Red spat again, flashing his brown, rotting teeth. “Watch the mule. She kicks.” 

Paul tipped his hat. “Will do.” He considered lingering, drawing Red into another conversation, but the hostler now ignored Paul. After a few seconds, he shuffled out the door, torn between going to the mayor’s house…his house…and hiding. 

Paul turned away from the house, opting instead to pace the street. He strolled up and down the empty road, watching as the windows in the small town went dark, one by one, until only the candles in his house continued to burn. Paul couldn’t see her, but he knew she was waiting up for her groom. Why shouldn’t she? It was their wedding night, after all. 

He kept walking, until not a single candle or lamp flickered in Dead Man’s Corner. Only then did he return to the house, slip in the backdoor, and retire to the study. Stretching out on the floor, he listened for any sign of Martha, but the room down the hall was silent. Gradually, he relaxed, shivering as he drifted off to sleep. 

**Chapter 2**

He found his brother, Chris, just before lunch. Flies, attracted by the four bodies already exhumed and waiting in the wagon, buzzed around his ears. Sweat rolled down his neck and aching back. He stood under the high noon sun, staring at the corpse with dust and water in his eyes. 

The face was beyond recognition. A bullet had blown part of his head away, and the rest had decomposed. But Paul knew it was his brother. He recognized the blue and brown shirt his mother had made almost two years before. He recognized the faded leather belt that bore his initials—CW. He recognized the trim build, his short trunk, his long, gangly legs. The legs were so long that they didn’t even fit in the grave properly; instead they were folded and bent at the knees. 

Paul merely stared. 

He knew Chris was dead. He had suspected Reid was the murderer since the night Chris disappeared. He had hoped that Chris had abandoned Dead Man’s Corner, and his little brother, for the greener pastures of California. 

“Boss?” 

Paul didn’t look up. 

“Boss?” 

He swatted at a fly on his ear. Missed. The stench was unbearable. 

“Paul?” 

“What?” he asked, his mouth barely moving. 

“Let’s get this one in the wagon.” 

Paul glanced up at the men surrounding the grave. They didn’t know, or if they knew, didn’t know what to say. His stomach rolled. He didn’t want to throw up in front of them. 

“Can you boys take care of this by yourself?” He nodded towards the grave, unable to look at his brother’s remains again. 

“Sure.” 

“Do that, then go ahead and take the afternoon off. We’ll get back to it this evening.” 

They all nodded, content to follow his simple instructions. Paul stumbled away, moving as quickly as he could, holding his mouth closed with one hand. He managed to keep himself under control until he reached the house. Standing on the back porch, he thought he would be fine. Already, the image of his brother seemed more like a dream than anything. 

But Martha opened the door, and he caught the haunting smell of Elsie’s fine soaps and perfumes. Without warning, he leaned over the rail, emptying his stomach of its meager contents. He continued to wrench and heave, even when there was nothing left. 

Paul heard Martha behind him, hurrying into the kitchen and returning with a rag and a dipper of cool water. 

“Here. Rinse your mouth out,” she said. 

He nodded, grateful for her soft voice and the cold water. Swishing it around his mouth, he tried to wash away the bitter taste of bile, and the bitter memory of his brother. When that didn’t work, he dumped the rest of the liquid over his head, allowing it to run down his face and neck, rinsing the sweat and dirt away. 

“What happened?” she asked gently. 

Paul stared at the ground, unable to meet her eyes. “I found him. I found my brother.” His words were even until the last syllable, his voice cracking under the weight of the word  _ brother _ . 

“Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry.” 

He shook his head, still staring at the glittering sand. “I…I knew he was probably there. I knew because Reid took his claim. But I…I…” 

Paul didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to expose himself to anybody. But he couldn’t stop the flood of tears. Hating himself, he turned his back to her, covering his face with his hands. 

“Paul…” 

“Leave me alone.” 

Martha didn’t leave, and he didn’t really expect her to. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him against her body even as he struggled to get away. 

“Paul…you don’t need to be embarrassed. There’s nobody here but us. Come here.” Martha continued to hold him, her arms surprisingly strong, her body inviting. Unable to resist, he wrapped his arms around her, burying his face against her neck. 

“He was my brother…my only brother… I…I loved him…” Paul muttered, trying to explain the hot, shameful tears staining her skin. 

“I know. I know.” 

Paul didn’t move until the tears dried on their own. He noticed the way she rubbed his back, the way her breath tickled his ear, the way she smelled of flowers. Above all that, he noticed how good it felt to be in her arms, like he belonged there, like she was made to hold him. 

Martha might have sensed the shift in his mood, because she took a step back, her smile watery. “I have your lunch ready, if you’re hungry.” 

Paul doubted he could ever eat again, but he was grateful for her kindness, so he merely nodded and allowed her to lead him into the kitchen. He tried to focus on the meal, but it all tasted like dust on his tongue. He couldn’t stop seeing his brother’s mutilated head. 

“Do you have any other people out there?” Martha asked, nodding towards the open door. 

“My best friend, I think.” 

“Have the other men take care of it,” she said. “Don’t go out there digging up anymore bodies.” 

“It’s my job.” 

“Paul, there are some things in this world that people like you shouldn’t see. I married you, and it’s my job to take care of you,” she said, standing up, as if she was getting ready to fight him. 

“People like me? Just who are people like me?” Paul stood up too, suddenly angry. 

“People who don’t deal in death. You’re better than that.” 

Paul’s nostrils flared. All the sadness in him, the loss, the pain, rolled up in his chest, burned there until it turned to anger. “How the fuck do you know? You don’t know me at all. You don’t know anything about me. You’re just a whore.” 

Martha gasped. “Paul, I…” 

“Just get away from me. Get the fuck away from me. Everybody in this place thinks they know me. Everybody thinks I’m just some weak little kid.” Paul shook his head, pointing to the distant graveyard. “My brother was the only out here who gave a fuck about me, so I don’t want to hear anything from you.” 

“Paul, please…” 

“I shouldn’t have stayed here. And I shouldn’t have married you.” 

Paul marched out of the house without sparing her a second glance, unable to tolerate the sight of silent tears on her cheeks. He didn’t break his stride until he was standing before Luke, the bartender. 

“A whiskey.” 

Luke eyed him with surprise, but wisely held any comments to himself as he poured the requested drink. 

#

Martha didn’t have many personal items. She had brought a few dresses with her to Dead Man’s Corner, but everything else she owned, she had acquired from the men—they liked to give her small trinkets in the hopes of garnering special favors from her. It never worked, but they didn’t seem discouraged. 

It all fit in a small suitcase and a small traveling bag. They were both filthy, battered, and had a dry, almost rotten smell she couldn’t place, but they would do. She considered going through Elsie’s wardrobe and vanity—the woman had expensive tastes—but dismissed the idea. She knew how hard traveling was, and she didn’t want to weigh herself down with anything unnecessary. 

Martha looked around the bedroom with a sigh of regret. She had visions of the house in five or ten years, nothing of the Reid’s remaining, as her children raced up and down the stairs. It was a simple fantasy, but a powerful one. She didn’t want to be a prostitute the rest of her life, and she hadn’t been lying when she told Paul that he was the finest man in Dead Man’s Corner. 

They both could have been happy. 

Martha shrugged, lifting her bags. Men were fickle creatures, and there was no point in weeping for him. She would stay the night in her old room at the hotel, then catch the next coach out of the Corner. 

Martha marched pass the saloon without stopping, though she could easily hear Paul’s voice above the din of the crowd. Would he even notice that she left? Would he care? She did feel sorry for the boy—but she couldn’t do anything if he insisted on pushing her away. 

“Welcome back,” Bill drawled as she stepped into the door. “To what do we owe the company, Mrs. Whitaker?” 

“I wish Eliza had killed you,” Martha snapped. “I need a room for the night. Nothing more.” 

Bill shrugged. “I have no rooms, Sweetheart.” 

“You know I can pay.” 

“Yes, but I have no rooms.” He smiled, as though sharing a dark secret with a good friend. “But there might be a gentleman willing to share.” 

“I quit. I told you.” 

“Does your husband know you’re staying here?” Bill asked, fingering the stack of papers on the counter in front of him. 

“That’s none of your business. Just give me a key, Bill.” 

Bill smirked. “That’ll be ten dollars.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Bill looked over her shoulder to a man standing behind her—she could feel his breath on her neck. “Such a mouth on this one.” 

“Hey, Martha, I’ll pay your room tab for you.” 

Martha tensed, recognizing the reedy, nasally voice. Phil Kegan. The most disgusting man she had ever met. She had refused his company more than once, but like most men in the Corner, he was persistent by nature. 

“No thanks, Phil.” 

“You sure? It’ll be a shame if a pretty thing like you has to sleep out in the streets.” He put his hand on her shoulder. 

“I’m sure it won’t come to that.” She tried to shrug him away, but his dirty fingers were heavy against her skin. 

“Come on, darlin’. Just one poke. I’ll wash myself first.” 

Martha shuddered. “Let go of me.” 

He spun her around to face him instead. A crowd had gathered behind Phil, at least a dozen eyes eagerly watching the drama unfold. She knew there were probably another dozen or so men just a few feet away in the dining room, their forks hovering over their plates, their ears straining to catch every word. 

“Now, Martha, darlin’.” 

“I said let me go, you bastard.” She grunted, pulling her arm free. 

Phil narrowed his eyes, his hand flying at her before she could duck. Pain exploded in her cheek and nose. Without hesitation, she punched him back, connecting with his eye. He growled, grabbing her arm with one hand and drawing his gun with the other. 

“Hey now,” Bill said, putting out his hands. “We don’t want that in here…” 

“Shut up.” Phil said, firing his gun over Martha’s head. She screamed, her ears ringing as the report of the weapon echoed in the small hotel. Blood oozed from her nose and lip, running down her face in warm rivulets, but she barely noticed it. 

“Hey now, Phil…” 

“Get back!” Phil brandished his weapon, pulling Martha against him. “Now I’m going to take this whore upstairs, and if any of you have a problem with that…” 

“Let her go, Phil.” 

All heads turned to the doorway where Paul stood, his gun drawn, his face flushed with anger. In that moment, he didn’t look like a scared nineteen-year-old boy, but a very angry man. 

“Well, if it isn’t our new mayor,” Phil sneered, his grip on Martha not loosening. 

“Let her go. Right now.” 

“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” Phil laughed, as though it was a great joke. Martha tried to pull away again, but Phil was having none of it. 

“I’m warning you,” Paul said, his voice low, his hand steady. 

“Ooh, I’m so…” The second crack of gunfire in as many minutes cut off his words. Martha looked up, noting the perfect black circle between Phil’s eyes. His arm went lax. She rushed away from him before he fell face first to the floor, blood oozing into the sawdust. 

Paul’s face hardened as he took Martha’s hand, pulling her behind him. “This is my wife. Do you understand that? She’s my wife, not your whore. And if you look at her with a disrespectful eye, I’ll shoot it right out of your head. Do you understand?” 

Everybody in the room nodded slowly. 

“Get this man buried,” Paul said, holstering the gun. “Come on.” 

Martha hurried out of the hotel with him, nearly jogging to keep up with his long strides. She watched his face in the silver moonlight as they walked, noticing the small tick in his jaw, the vein standing out in his neck. He didn’t even look at her until they reached the house and he pushed her into the kitchen. He hung a bucket of water over the fire to warm before finding a soft rag. 

“How does your face feel?” he asked. The blood had stopped flowing. 

She touched her nose with delicate fingers. “Fine.” 

“What were you doing there?” 

Martha was saved from explaining herself by a sharp rap on the front door. “Hey, Paul!” 

“What do you want?” 

Frank, the new sheriff, entered the house. “I just noticed that Miss Martha left these bags at the hotel.” He looked down the short hall to the kitchen, tipping his hat Martha’s direction. “I thought I’d bring ‘em on by before somebody stole them.” 

“Thanks, Frank.” Paul took the bags, setting them on the stairs. “I appreciate it.” 

“Just doing my job.” He tipped his hat again then ducked out the door. 

“What’s going on here, Martha?” Paul asked, his eyes confused. 

Martha dipped the rag in the warming water before wiping the blood from her lip. “I decided I’d stay at the hotel tonight.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I’m leaving tomorrow morning.” 

Paul’s eyes widened. “You’re leaving? Where are you going?” 

“Maybe I’ll follow your Lady Love out west.” Martha stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long day. I think I will retire now.” 

“Leaving?” 

Martha rolled her eyes. “Good night, Paul.” 

“Wait, why?” 

Martha laughed. “You mean you don’t know? Come on, Paul, you’re not that clueless.” 

“I guess I am.” 

She smiled, oddly amused. “I don’t need to stick around with a man who hates me. There are plenty of men in this world waiting to love me. I’m sure you’ll be very happy here with your memories of Eliza…Though, tell me one thing, Paul. How long did you actually know that woman? One day? Two?” 

Paul stared at her. She hit him lightly on the chest, pushing him away as she passed. 

#

Paul hesitated outside the bedroom door, his heart heavy in his chest. He had regretted yelling at Martha as soon as he downed his first shot of whiskey—but by then, he had been too frightened to come back and apologize. So he took the coward’s way out and hid at the bar, nursing a second shot of whiskey. 

Somebody—Paul thought it might have been Ely Whitmore—had rushed in to tell him that Martha was at the hotel, and might have been in trouble. What had Paul done? To his eternal shame and horror, he had shrugged. Shrugged at the news because…well…because he was a coward. The crack of gunfire had propelled him out of the saloon and across the street, his heart in his throat, his gun in his hand. What would he have done if he found her on the floor, her soft skin covered in crimson? 

Paul rested his forehead against the door, desperate to knock, desperate to apologize. He didn’t want her to leave, but he couldn’t give her a compelling reason to stay. How had he destroyed his own marriage in less than a day? Was that a new record? 

He knocked on the door softly, hoping that she was already asleep, that she wouldn’t hear him. 

“Come in, Paul.” 

With a gun in his hand he could stare down any man, confident he would draw fast. Fast enough to live another day. Now his palms were slick, and a dull throbbing began at the base of his neck. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you in my bedroom, Paul.” 

He whipped his hat from his head, clutching it in front of him. A single candle burned beside the bed, just bright enough to push the shadows away from her face. She looked at him with clear, unwavering eyes. 

“Martha, I…” Paul swallowed past the lump in his throat and forced the words out. “I am deeply sorry for what I said today. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. I don’t know…I don’t know what demon possessed me.” 

Martha continued to look at him, as if she expected him to continue speaking. Paul didn’t know what else to say. He had come to apologize, that was all. But she didn’t even blink. 

“I…don’t want you to leave,” he finally admitted. He walked over to the bed, kneeling beside it, but not touching her. “When I thought… When I heard the gun, I thought you were gone. I don’t know what I would have done if anything happened to you.” 

She continued to look at him passively, her face not betraying a hint of emotion. What magic words was she waiting for? Would she want a declaration of love? That didn’t seem Martha’s style, and she probably wouldn’t believe him either. But what could he offer? 

“I don’t want you to leave. I want to be your husband.” 

She smiled, the corners of her mouth rising slightly. It wasn’t the sort of smile Paul was waiting for. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and yell  _ what do you want from me? _ Instead, he tried to smile, resting his hand on top of hers. 

“Will you stay with me?” 

Martha tilted her head. “Will  _ you  _ stay with  _ me _ ?” 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

She took his hand, bringing it up to her lips. “I want a real marriage, Paul. I want to be your wife. Stay with me tonight. Don’t go sleepin’ on the floor again.” 

“I…” His eyes were transfixed on her pink lips, so close to his rough, brown skin. “I’ve never been with a woman, Martha.” 

“You’re hardly the first virgin in the world.” 

Paul blushed. 

“I understand,” she said, and now she did brush her lips against the back of his hand. His entire arm tingled from the contact. “But you’ll know what to do.” 

“What should I do now?” 

She released his hand, and he couldn’t stop the small moan of disappointment. “Get out of them filthy clothes, for starters.” 

Paul straightened, obediently unbuttoning his shirt. He tried to ignore Martha as he followed her order, but he had never undressed in front of a woman before. Shyly, he stepped out of the small circle of light into the welcoming shadows. 

“Where are you going?” Martha asked. 

“I just…” 

“Get back over here. I want to see you.” 

It didn’t occur to Paul to protest or ignore her. He stepped forward again, shrugging his shirt off and dropping it to the floor. He removed his belt with shaking fingers, fumbling with the clasp several times before working it free. She watched silently until he stood in nothing but his long underwear. 

“Take those off too.” 

“What about you?” Paul asked as he stepped out of his underwear. 

Martha shrugged, lifting her arms. “Take it off for me.” 

Paul’s mouth ran dry. He had seen a few naked women in his day, but never one as nice as Martha, and never one so close. Trembling, he pulled the material up her body and over her head, leaving her naked before him. Her skin seemed to glow in the low light, her golden hair falling around her shoulders like honey. Her breasts were high, her nipples pert. He couldn’t see anything below her waist, but he knew she was naked beneath the blanket. 

His cock hardened. He looked down, his face burning, surprised by the quick reaction. “Now what?” he rasped. 

“Now,” she said, patting the blanket, “you come to bed.” 

Paul slid into the sheets beside her—hard, shaking, exposed, shy, and slick with sweat. He felt like a colt, all bony knees and elbows. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing there. Did he want her? Oh yes. At that moment, he had never desired anything as much as he coveted his wife. 

She slid her fingers into his hair, drawing his head towards her until their lips were a mere inch apart. He could smell the sweet soap she used in her hair, the fine powder that clung to her skin. Where did she find such delicate things in the middle of the desert? She seemed like a queen to him, regal and beautiful in their borrowed bed. 

His body snapped and vibrated like a tight wire when their mouths finally touched. He once rode with a kid who was struck by lightning during a late afternoon thunderstorm—he had hopped around, screaming, his hair singed, his muscles twitching. Paul had laughed at the time, but now he thought he knew how that poor bastard felt. But as she deepened the kiss, even the image of the kid’s singed hair and hopping feet faded, leaving Paul staring into a dark oblivion. 

He ached. He throbbed. He didn’t know what to touch, where to touch, what to do. He didn’t know what to ask her for, but he couldn’t help but writhe and twist beside her, straining for some sort of relief. He had never touched anything as soft as her skin, never felt anything as warm and wonderful as her breasts pressed against his chest, her thigh sliding between his. 

Paul slid his fingers down her spine hesitantly, longing to explore her body but unsure of where to start. She moaned, arching against his hand like a cat. The soft sound from deep in her throat set a sliver of pain through his groin, his cock twitching. Longing to hear that sweet moan again, he continued his exploration down her back, sliding his knuckles against the soft slope of her buttocks. She rewarded him with another moan, sliding her body closer until nothing separated them. 

Martha shocked him by wrapping her fingers around his cock and tugging on it. He jumped, unconsciously thrusting against her hand. 

“You’re just ‘bout ready to pop, aren’t ya?” she asked. 

Paul nodded, the pressure and heat in his groin mounting. His fingers were on her thigh now, just an inch from the hot, velvety flesh he longed for. Before he could gather the courage to actually touch her there, she pushed him against the bed and straddled him in one smooth move. 

“What…?” 

“Shhh,” she said, sliding onto his cock. 

Paul gasped, his hips jerking forward as if pulled by some invisible string. The heat was exquisite, the tightness of her flesh against his shaft made his head spin, the friction she created as she moved her body almost brought tears to his eyes. He grasped her hips, desperate to hold onto something as the room spun around him. She rocked back and forth, clenching her muscles with each forward movement, holding him deep within her. 

Paul wished they had more candles in the room. He wished the sun was high in the sky. He wanted to see her, wanted to see her sharp eyes, wanted to see her pretty face, wanted to see her tough body, her tan skin. He longed to commit each detail to his mind, burn each second to his memory, so he could relive the unexpected, exalted bliss again and again. 

He ran his hands over her body, trying to see her with his fingers. Her breasts were firm, heavy against his palms. Her nipples were hard, and she shuddered each time he brushed his fingers across their peaks. Her arms and legs flexed with sinewy muscles, a testament to her strength, her silent power. Her body hid a myriad of treasures—it occurred to him that he could spend a lifetime trying to map her with his fingers. 

The thought made his muscles clench, made his body convulse as he climaxed. She slowed, finally stopping as he went limp. It was over far too soon, and he didn’t have to be an experienced man to know that she did not reach the same peak he did. 

“What can I do for you?” Paul asked as she rolled away from him. In the flickering light, he could see surprise on her face. He thought she was incapable of being surprised. “Well?” he prompted. 

“I…well, nobody’s asked me that before,” she admitted. 

Paul smiled, feeling generous and pliable. 

“Give me your hand,” she said, guiding him to the juncture between her thighs. She slid his fingers over a small, hard nub of flesh. “Do you feel that?” 

Paul nodded. 

“Rub it…like this…” With her fingers over his, she showed him how to caress and massage the nub until it seemed to come to life beneath his hand, twitching and even throbbing. 

“Like this?” 

“Oh…oh…yes…” She moaned, lifting her hips from the bed. “Don’t stop…” 

Paul had no intention of stopping. Her moans had cut through him again, making him as hard as ever. He wanted to be inside her, wanted to see her body beneath his, wanted to pound her into the bed until he emptied himself into her again. 

“Come on…come on…” she murmured, her body straining to its destination. 

“What should I do?” 

“Kiss me,” she gasped, pulling him to her with her free hand. Their lips sparked, their tongues clashed, and he tried to tell her without words how much he needed her at that moment, how much he wanted her. She rotated her pelvis, thrusting against his hand. He couldn’t control himself, couldn’t stop his hips from pumping forward, his body mimicking her thrusts. 

Her breath quickened, turned to soft moans, then harder, faster groans, and finally a shout that shocked them both as she clawed at him, shaking with her final release. He counted the aftershocks that rolled through her body, her nub twitching with each one. He inhaled deeply, filling his head with the sweet smell of Martha’s sweat and arousal. How did she taste? The same? Better? 

“Are you ready to go again, Cowboy?” she asked, cupping his crotch. 

Paul nodded, unable to speak. 

“Come on over,” she murmured, adjusting herself on the bed and pulling him between her legs. 

Martha wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him into her. Paul wanted to unleash himself, but Martha kept him under control with her legs and arms, holding him against her until he relaxed. 

“This isn’t a race. Take your time.” 

Paul nodded, holding his breath as he slid out and thrust into her again. She dug her nails into his back, throwing her head back, arching towards him. The desire to taste her overwhelmed him. He kissed every bit of skin he could reach, lingering over her neck, her throat, the swell of her breasts. 

The candle puffed out, a blanket of darkness falling around them. She surrounded him in every way—all he could feel, all he could hear, all he wanted to touch. The sound of her breath, the musky scent of her skin, the way she clenched him, pulled him, moved beneath him. He fell into her again and again in the shadows.

**Chapter 3**

Martha found more flowers—a sweet if sickly bouquet—to put over Chris’s grave. The marker was a simple cross with his name carved into the wood. Paul said a simple prayer over the body, trying to pull words from his past, but it had been too long since he’d seen the inside of a church. 

“I didn’t want to come out here,” Paul said. “I mean, Chris thought it’d be easy money, but I thought we should try our hands at the ranches, be cowboys. But no, he wanted to be a miner.” 

Martha wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his chest. “It’s an attractive dream.” 

Paul laughed bitterly. “Of course it is. The hills are bursting with gold, right? That’s what I don’t understand.” 

“What?” 

“Reid was a wealthy man. You’ve had a chance to explore the house. You know what he owned, what he took for granted. Why did he have to kill my brother? Chris’s claim was nothing, Martha. Enough for one man to make a small living. Why murder to get it? My brother’s life was worth more than that.” 

Martha sighed. “Bernard was a greedy man, Paul. Every buried body represents a small claim that’s not worth a man’s life…but put all that together, and he had enough to be….” 

“What? To be the most powerful man in town? In Dead Man’s Corner?” Paul spit. 

“Not at all. He wanted the entire territory.” 

“How do you know?” Paul asked. 

“He told me.” 

Paul pushed her away. “What? He told you he was killing…” 

“No.” Martha grabbed his arm. “No. No, I didn’t know. But he told me that…he wanted me to…” She looked away, uncharacteristically shy. 

“What?” Paul asked, softened. 

“He just told me it would be best to make him happy because he was going to be very powerful one day. He wanted me to be his private mistress.” 

“You mean, not working at all anymore?” Paul asked. 

“Yeah.” 

“That doesn’t sound so horrible.” 

It was Martha’s turn to push him away, as if his touch burned her. “It doesn’t sound so horrible? Indentured servitude doesn’t sound so horrible? Look at what he’s done. Look at what he did to his own wife. Look at what he was going to do to Eliza. How do you think I would have faired? How do you think he’d treat his own little slave?” 

Paul winced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” 

Martha shook her head. “He was a sick man, and he killed for pleasure, Paul. Not for profit. That was just a happy result.” 

“I hope he’s burning in hell right now.” 

“Me too.” Martha looped her arm through his. “Come on, Husband, the mail coach is here.” 

“How do you know?” 

“I can hear it.” As she spoke, the unmistakable sound of a coach thundering into town filled the air. 

Paul smiled, a little bemused. “Maybe there’s news from Eliza and Ford.” 

“Maybe.” 

By the time they crossed the town to the depot, the coach had been unloaded and unhitched. A large bundle of letters leaned against the wall near the door, a slip of paper on the top simply said  _ mayor _ . 

“That’s your bundle there,” the driver said, nodding. 

“Right. Thanks.” 

“Most of that’s for Bernard,” Martha muttered. 

“Let’s go through it at home.” Paul stopped short at the word.  _ Home _ . How bizarre. How foreign. Martha didn’t seem to notice. 

Paul didn’t feel comfortable going through the dead man’s mail. Martha didn’t think it was a good idea to simply burn it. The argument ended when Paul picked up the final letter in the stack and noticed it was addressed to him personally—Mayor Paul Whitaker. 

“It’s from Eliza,” he murmured. 

“What does it say?” 

Paul tore the envelope open, shaking with excitement. He longed to devour the words privately, but Martha looked at him with expectant eyes. He cleared his throat and began, “Dearest Paul, I’m posting this from Santa Fe before we go to California. Ford and I were married last week. After we finally left our room, we met Raphael Gonzalez. Do you know of him? He owns the largest ranch in California. He and Ford made quick friends, and he hired Ford as his foreman.”

“Good for them,” Martha said. 

Paul continued reading, as if he didn’t hear her. “I think about that night we spent together, Paul, and I do wonder if things could have been different. We’ll never know, I guess. I’ll write when we reach California. I hope everything is well in the Corner. Your friend, Eliza. P.S. Ford sends his regards.” 

He looked up to meet Martha’s flashing eyes. “You slept with her and Ford let you live?” 

“What? No…no, I didn’t. I mean, we didn’t…look, Martha, you know I didn’t…with her.” Paul’s neck burned. 

“Then what did you do? What was she talking about?” Martha asked. 

“It was…well, she was in prison, and I had been assigned to watch her…we made a deal.” 

“What was her end of the deal?” 

“She…used her hand…” 

Martha gaped. “You’re all moony over that woman because of a  _ hand-job _ . Jesus Christ, Paul.” 

Paul frowned. “It was more than that…” 

“She was using you. I have to give her credit for a job well done, but Paul, you were played like Faye’s fiddle.” 

“It was more than that,” he repeated lamely. 

“Oh yeah?” She stood up from the table, approaching him like a cat stalking her prey. 

Paul stood up as well, backing away from her. “What are you doing?” 

“Where are you going? You look a little scared.” A shiver of excitement raced down his spine as she pressed against him, pinning him to the wall. 

“Not scared…just…” 

“What?” she said, unbuttoning his pants. 

“Just a little surprised.” 

“Surprised?” She cupped his balls, giving them a light squeeze. 

“Surprised,” he gasped. He tensed beneath her onslaught, the muscles in his thighs tight. 

She rolled his balls between her fingers. “Did she do this? Did she rub your balls like this?” 

“Martha!” His skin burned from his neck to his scalp. 

“Did she?” 

“N-no…” 

“What about this?” 

Paul’s knees buckled. “What…what are you doing?”  

“Trying to make you happy,” she said, her other hand closing over his shaft. “Aren’t you happy?” 

The floor seemed to buckle beneath him. Sweat stood out on his brow and neck. “Yes…yes…” 

Martha straddled his leg, thrusting against him as she moved her wrist faster. He looked down, his vision blurring as he watched her grind against his thigh. 

“Did she move fast like this? Or slow…like this?” 

Paul whimpered. “I…I don’t remember.” 

“What’s that?” 

Her fingers were still curled around his balls. The head of his cock dripped with pre-come. His groin tightened. He whimpered again. “I don’t…remember.” 

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No…no…” 

“What’s that?” 

“Please don’t. Please.” He felt like he was melting, like his muscles had turned to the thick syrup Elsie used to serve with pancakes, like his limbs didn’t work. 

Martha did something with her hand, something with her wrist, something with her fingers—Paul didn’t know. All he knew was that his entire body froze, his heart stopped, his blood seemed to run red hot, and then he was shaking heap in her arms, his cock coated with his liquid. 

Paul thought she would take him to the bedroom, but she stepped away, wiping her hands on the side of her skirt. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, trying to close his pants. 

“I’ve got to get my order in before the coach leaves.” 

Paul blinked. “What?” 

“My order. We talked about this, remember?” 

He didn’t even remember his own name. “Oh, right. Do you need any help?” 

She grabbed her bonnet from the hook by the door. “I have it under control. I’ll see you this evening.” 

“This evening,” Paul repeated weakly. 

He collapsed on the kitchen chair, wiping himself with a rag before buttoning his pants. The letter sat on the table in front of him, Eliza’s handwriting flowing and even decorative across the sheet. He picked it up and re-read it, trying to remember the soft English lilt of her voice, but he kept hearing Martha’s hardy drawl. 

“She’s not coming back,” Paul muttered. “Ever.” 

He crumpled the letter in one hand, jumping to his feet. He grabbed a long match from the box beside the fireplace and hurried outside, walking without thought. He turned away from the graveyard—only halfway excavated—and instead wound his way into the hills, towards the mines. 

Paul climbed to the small hole in the side of the hill that constituted his brother’s claim. He turned, looking out over the town that belonged to him now. Nothing was ever going to be the same. Whatever life he had before was lost…but there was a new one waiting for him, one that he had stumbled into, one that he didn’t think he deserved. 

Paul slid the match against the bottom of his boot. It erupted in a weak flare, almost invisible in the bright sunshine. He touched it to the corner of the letter without regret, allowing the blackening paper to flutter to the ground where it burned itself out. A small breeze scattered the ashes, blending them with the sand until they were lost. 

Paul turned, climbing higher and deeper into the hills, his eyes scanning the ground. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he knew it when he saw it. 

#   
  


Paul paced through the house, approaching the door, turning the knob, changing his mind, and marching back to the kitchen. As the minutes ticked into hours, he became convinced that she went to catch the coach herself. Maybe what had happened in the kitchen was her way of saying  _ good-bye _ . 

Finally frantic, he yanked the front door open, prepared to chase the woman down on foot if he had to. She stood on the porch, her arms full, her fist upraised to knock. 

“You’re here.” 

She smiled. “Well, yes. Where else would I be?” 

“I…I don’t know. Did you get what you wanted?” 

“More,” she said, her smile widening. She thrust the bundle into his arms, removing her bonnet with her free hand. “Just a few months from now, Paul, and this place will be like new.” 

“So you’re staying.” 

Martha laughed. “What’s wrong with you? Did I break your brain this afternoon?” 

“Nearly,” Paul muttered. “Where should I put this?” 

“The bedroom is fine.” 

After disposing of her purchases, he found her in the kitchen, studying a half-dozen rocks spread on the table. She touched one delicately. “What’s this?” 

“They’re fossils…of plants.” 

“Fossils?”

“I found them today,” Paul explained, suddenly feeling foolish. “I wanted to bring you flowers but these…last longer.” 

Martha didn’t respond. Paul’s heart sunk. Of course she wouldn’t be impressed with a handful of rocks—even if they did have the dark images of ancient plants and flowers. 

“If you don’t like them I can…” 

“You went and found them for me?” Martha asked, her words oddly thick. 

“Yes. I thought you might…” 

“Where’s your letter, Paul?” 

“Oh. I uh…burned it.” 

Martha looked up, her eyes swimming. Before he could speak, she rushed by him, locking herself in the bedroom. Paul hesitated for a moment before hurrying after her, knocking on the locked door. 

“Martha? Martha, what did I do wrong? I’m sorry…please come out…Martha?” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she called, her voice still thick. 

“Then why did you lock me out?” 

She opened the door, her eyes dry now. “I’m sorry, I just…” She smiled, changing the shape of her face. “What would you like for dinner?” 

“Martha, wait. What’s wrong?” 

“Oh, Paul, it’s nothing. I’m just not…” She fidgeted with her skirt. “Why did you bring those fossils home?” 

“I thought you’d like them. That’s all.” 

“Nobody every brought me anything just because they thought I’d like it. I have to work for my gifts…” 

“Not anymore.” He took her shoulders, backing her into the bedroom. He kicked the door shut behind him. Dusky gray light filtered through the windows, so he could still see her eyes clearly. He felt a surge of confidence, something he had never experienced when staring into the eyes of a woman. 

“Paul?” 

“I thought about it this afternoon, Martha. About what you said. About Eliza. About my brother. The difference between you and them is that you’re still here…and you want me. You do want me, right?” 

Martha nodded. 

“Eliza belonged with Ford. Chris only cared about his claim, his gold. But you just want me and I couldn’t see that until now.” He tilted his head, studying her face. “How long have you loved me, Martha?” 

If she was surprised by his question, she didn’t show it. “Since they deputized you. I never let on, but the nights I brought you dinner…well, those were the nicest nights I ever had. You treated me with respect and I wasn’t accustomed to that.” 

“You deserved it.” 

“Nobody thought so but you.” 

“I still think so.” He dipped his head, kissing her with reverence. She opened beneath him like a flower, not holding anything back from the kiss. She intoxicated him like the firewater they gulped down at the saloon. Her mouth was tender, inviting, warm, alive. She made his blood rush from his head to his groin, made his skin tingle. 

“Can I see you?” Paul asked, lifting his head. 

Martha studied his face before nodding, unhooking her buttons slowly. Once her dress hung open, he pushed it down her shoulders, letting it fall to a cotton pool at her feet. He pulled her shift over her head. She stood before him, naked and bathed in dying light, her gaze unwavering, her body perfectly still. 

Paul circled her once, his eyes sliding up and down her skin, noting each mark, each dip, each stray hair. She was beautiful like the desert, hard and golden. He loved the way her skin stretched across her back like the canvas his mother used to paint on. He loved the way the ends of her hair curled this way and that, creating unexpected waves against her back. He loved the freckles that dotted each of her shoulders—eight on the left, twelve on the right. 

“Can I touch you?” 

Martha nodded. 

He touched each of her freckles with his lips, sliding his fingers through her hair. He skimmed her shoulder with his other hand, his fingers dancing across her cool skin. He could feel her shiver with each touch, a chill sliding down his spine in response. He silently cursed the sun as the shadows grew longer around them, angry that soon he wouldn’t be able to see the fine details of her body. 

Hungry to taste her, he slid his tongue across her nipple, licking her until it hardened. He cupped her other breast in his hand, caressing her with his thumb. She shuddered, holding him against her. 

“Tell me,” she murmured. 

Paul knew what she wanted to hear. The question was, did he mean it when he said it? He didn’t want to lie to her; he never wanted to utter a false word. His mind flashed to the burned letter, to the thoughtlessly discarded match, to the hastily built and carved cross bearing his brother’s name. He wasn’t even sure what the words meant anymore. 

He straightened, looking her in the eyes so she could read every emotion on his face. “Martha, I love you.” 

She smiled, looking away shyly. His heart melted as a slow blush crept up her cheeks. How could he make a woman like Martha blush? 

“I suppose nobody ever told you that either?” 

Martha shook her head. “No, never.” 

“Well, then, I guess it’s about time.” 

“You know,” Martha smiled, “it’s not right that I should be left standing here all naked while you’re fully clothed.” 

“That’s a fair point.” Paul made short work of his clothes, and as the sun fell behind the distant mountains, they fell to the bed, their skin craving contact, their mouths sealed together. 

“I could stare at you for hours,” Paul said when he finally lifted his head for air. 

“I want a bit more from you then that.” 

“We’ll compromise.” He settled between her legs, slowly sliding into her. Once she surrounded him completely, he paused, watching the last rays of the sun color her face. 

Martha caressed his skin, sliding her fingertips down his cheek. He turned his head, catching her hand with his mouth, kissing her softly. He held himself above her, feeling her pulse around him, counting the heartbeats that echoed his. He had never been closer to another human being, never felt like he was one with another soul. 

“I really do love you,” he whispered. 

Martha kissed him, telling him without words everything he already knew. Closing his eyes, he saw a future between them. A future entwined with the town. A relationship that would grow, flourish, and guide the little settlement that had been entrusted to them. Joy surged through him, lifted his heart, burst from him. He couldn’t keep it to himself. 

“I can see so many things,” Paul said. “Us, our children, our grandchildren, Dead Man’s Corner becoming a real city…we can do it, the two of us.” 

Martha nodded. 

“I never thought I’d build anything.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Thank you.” 

Martha touched his face again. “You’re a fine man, Paul. I always knew it.” 

Paul sighed, rocking forward, sliding a bit deeper before pulling out, then rocking forward again. The pace was slow, deliberate, building a smoldering, red-hot fire between them. He saw his pleasure reflected in her eyes, heard it reflected in her small, sharp moans that rolled through his body like rain over the packed sand. He rocked steadily, not speeding or slowing, straining to keep this slow, aching tension. His pleasure moved forward, retreated slightly, surged again. 

She wrapped her legs around his, locking him against her body. Paul knew she could hold him between her legs forever if he wanted her to, and he did. He felt a dozen subtle changes in her body—a fine sheen of sweat, a tightening of her muscles, an acceleration of her heart. He could see her pulse in her neck, feel it against his cock. He knew she was close. She gradually tightened around him, until the friction made his head spin, his breath catch in his throat. 

Martha triggered a hundred explosions in his body, sparks and lights bursting in front of his eyes. Her body shook with her own explosions, and he marveled as one sparked another, then another, and another. Tentatively, he reached between them, touching her nubbin like she had showed him before. She squealed, tightening around him, throwing her head back, and riding out the greatest crest of her last wave of pleasure. 

“God,” she breathed. 

Paul gasped for breath, loath to break contact with her. He rolled to his side without releasing her, holding her tight against his body as he drifted to his dreams of their future. 

**The End**


End file.
